The Corps
by corpsman562
Summary: A young man takes on the challenge of becoming a United States Marine. Rated M for language and future content. All OC
1. Chapter 1

This is my first fic so please be kind in your reviews. The story is mine, the charters mine, and everything else that is an original thought MINE. I do not own the names of the bases or the United States Marine Corps or any other armed service. So here it is, hope you like it.

The Corps

Part I – Peace and War

_A pint of sweat saves a gallon of blood.__  
__George S. Patton_

Chapter 1 – Officer Candidates School

Mark and twenty other men climbed aboard an ancient white school bus. Wire mesh covered the windows and four black words ran along its sides: **UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS**.

Mark and the others spread out and sat alone with their bags. Some sipped coffee from paper cups, and a few started to read the newspapers they had brought along. Mark found a seat near the rear as the bus roared to life and a cloud of black smoke blew through the open windows.

A second lieutenant, looking crisp in his khaki uniform, sat in the front. He had just graduated from OCS, and would escort them on the drive to the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. After they pulled away from the recruiting office, the lieutenant stood in the aisle and turned to speak to them.

"Honor, courage, and commitment are the Marines' core values," he shouted over the engine. "If you can't be honest at OCS, how can the Corps trust you to lead men in combat?"

Mark glanced around the bus, surprised to see people reading or sleeping. Not one person answered the lieutenant's question. He was Mark's age, but he looked different. Shorter hair, of course, and broader should. It was more than that. He had an edge, something that made Mark self-conscious.

He turned toward the window to avoid the lieutenant's gaze. Families drove next to them, on their way to the lake or the beach. Kids wearing headphones gawked, surely wondering what losers were riding a school bus in the summertime. A girl in an open Jeep stood and started to raise her shirt before being pulled back down by laughing friends. Mark started to think of his friends, spending their summer vacations in New York and San Francisco, working in air-conditioned office towers and partying at night. Staring through the wire mesh at the bright day, he thought this must be what it's like on the ride to Sing Sing.

The Marine Corps base in Quantico straddles Interstate 95, sprawling across thousands of acres of pine forest and swamp thirty miles south of Washington. Mark's bus rumbled through the gate, and drove past rows of peeling warehouses and brick building identified only by numbered signs.

"Christ, man, where're the ovens? This place looks like Dachau." Only a few forced laughs met the quip from someone near the back of the bus.

They drove farther onto the base – along the edge of a swamp, through miles of trees, far enough to make Mark feel as if they could kill him and no one would ever know. That, of course, was the desired effect. When the air brakes finally kissed and the door swung open, they piled of the bus and sat in the middle of a blacktop parade deck the size of three football fields. Mark saw a sign at the edge blacktop's edge – **United States Marine Corps Officer Candidates School – Ductus Exemplo.**

"Leadership by Example," he muttered to himself recognizing the Latin phrase.

A fresh faced Marine with a clipboard took roll by Social Security number and then handed a pencil to each of them, saying they had a lot of paperwork to fill out.

For two days, Mark and the other Candidates shuffled from line to line for haircuts, gear issue, and a battery of physical tests. The schedule was designed minimize the number of candidates who flunked out for high blood pressure. On the third day, the hammer would fall and fall hard.

Mark lay sprawled out on his bunk in the squad bay, running his fingers though what had been his hair.

"So far so good, all I have to do is survive the next twelve weeks and I'll be golden," he thought to himself.

A fellow candidate pulled up his footlocker and set it next to Mark's.

"This bunk taken?"

"No."

"Mind if I bunk with you then?"

"No, go right ahead."

The man slid his footlocker under the bed and sat down next to Mark and extended his hand.

"The name's Andrew Taggart."

"Mark Rollins," he said taking Andrew's hand. "So what do you think?"

"I think we're in for a shitty summer," Andrew said smiling. "But what's that saying? 'Pain is temporary pride is forever.'"

"I saw a bumper sticker in the parking lot that said 'Nobody ever drowned in sweat.'"

"Well," Andrew said standing up, "I'm gonna hit the sack. Tomorrow is gonna be hell and I want as much sleep as I can possible get."

"And how do you know this," Mark asked as Andrew climbed into the top bunk.

"Cause this is my second time through the program. Last time I failed the final PT test; so here I am trying a second time."

"Think you'll make it this time?"

"Don't know, all I can do is try my best and hope I pass. That's all anyone can do here."

"_Sounds like I'm in for the time of my life,"_ Mark thought to himself as he lay down.

His life as a civilian was now over.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – The Third Day

On the ominous third day, Mark and his fellow candidates walked over to the supply warehouse to receive the last of their issued gear. They all lined up and moved from bin to bin, selecting MARPAT camouflage blouses and trousers, nylon belts with two olive drab canteens attached, and odd items such as bug spray labeled "Repellent Arthropod." Two young Marines in the warehouse took advantage of the chance to hassle Mark and some other future officers.

"Get at parade rest!"

It was an alien command. Mark clasped his hand in front of him and tried to look respectful.

"You gonna gaff us off? Get at the position of attention."

The candidates around Mark stood a little straighter, with their hands at their sides. The two Marines told them there were only two ways to stand at OCS: parade rest – feet should-width apart, hand clasped in the small of the back, eyes straight ahead; and at attention – heels together, back straight, hands at your sides with the thumbs along the trouser seams.

Later, the candidates assembled for lunch in a World War II-era Quonset hut. Baking in the sun-beaten aluminum oven, the munched process meat sandwiches and apples – a prepared lunch the Marines called a "boxed nasty" – as the school's commanding officer (CO) outlined his expectations of them. The colonel's lantern jaw, craggy nose, and graying hair were straight from the recruiting commercial. He looked as if he could wrestle Mark or any of the other candidates to the floor, and authority ran deep in his voice.

"We seek to identify in each candidate those qualities of intellect, human understanding, and moral character that enable a person to inspire and to control a group of people successfully: leaders," he said. "A candidate's presence under pressure is a key indicator of leadership potential. In trying to identify Marine leaders who may someday face combat, we want to see who can think and function under stress. Stress at OCS is created in many ways, as you will see."

When the colonel concluded, he called forward the school's staff, introducing each Marine. All had served as drill instructors. At OCS thought, they were called "sergeant instructors," and would be address by that title, their rank, and their name. The staff marched smartly down the aisle and stood at attention before them. Khaki uniforms with splashes of colored ribbons, eyes focused over Mark's and the other candidate's heads on the back wall of the room, no smiles. They were sergeants, staff sergeants, and gunnery sergeants, mostly men with ten to twenty years in the Corps. Mark noticed the scars and biceps and tattoos. With introductions complete, the colonel turned to the staff and uttered ten words that ended Mark's and everyone else's civilian lives: "Take charge and carry out the plan of the day."

Tables turned over, chairs clattered to the floor, and Mark forgot all about his half-eaten apple in his hand. The staff charged them. They ran out the back door of the Quonset hut. "_Maybe I should keep running, make my way out to the highway and….WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING!_" Mark thought to himself. "_If I leave now what the hell did I accomplish? Jack shit that's what!_" His pride took over his impulse and Mark fell into a ragged formation with his new platoon-mates.

"Stop eyeballing the freakin' area, maggot." Mark's eyes were locked to the front. Warm, wet breath on his cheeks. If not him, then someone next to him was getting his ass chewed.

"Lock your body!"

The Marine strutted up and down their crooked ranks. He spoke to the group, but in a way the made it personal to each of them.

"If you so much a breathe, I'll hear it and rip your freakin' windpipe out. Now grab your freakin' trash and move with a purpose. Pretend for me that you want to be here."

They shouldered their bags. Candidates with foresight bad brought hiking packs. They stood comfortable, looking ready to strike down the trail. They truly lost labored with the leather brief bags and suitcases. Mark fell somewhere in between, striving to be inconspicuous with and oversized duffle bag.

He snuck a look at the instructor's nametag. "_Briggs. Three stripes and a line on his shoulder. Staff Sergeant Briggs._" He was yelling, veins popping, eyes bulging. His arms waved from broad shoulders that tapper to his waist with all the menacing grace of a wasp. Mark looked at Sergeant Instructor Staff Sergeant Briggs, sensing he had just become a fixture in his life.

"Don't eyeball me, candidate. Do you want to ask me out on a date? You look like you want to ask me out."

"No, Sergeant Instructor Staff Sergeant Briggs."

"Go ahead, candidate. Keep whispering. And keep looking deep into my eyes." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he moved in close. Mark watched a vein throbbing in his temple and struggled not to make eye contact. "I dare you to ask me out. Your chucklehead classmates here might get a laugh out of it, but I swear it'll be the last thing you ever do."

"_This is theater, right? It's all a joke. But this sure as hell doesn't fell like a joke!_" Adrenaline washed through his chest and his legs shook. Briggs knew he had gotten to him. He would more than likely increase the pressure.

For now, Briggs pivoted on a spit-shined heel and stuck out across the parade deck. Lacking better options, they followed him. Large raindrops splotched the dark asphalt. The splotched grew bigger and closer together until they finally merged into a single, dark stain .Staff Sergeant Briggs had opened a gap of fifty yards between him and the straggling platoon. He stood facing them with his hands on his hips. "Dump your trash. I want to see who's trying to sneak naked pictures of his boyfriend into my squad bay."

They all hesitated, unsure whether he actually meant for them to dump their belongings onto the pavement. Steam rose as the rain hit the ground.

"What are we, deaf? I said dump your trash. Do it now. MOVE!"

Mark unzipped his bag and placed the boots on the blacktop. Then he stacked his clothes on them and put the toiletry bag on top to deflect the rain. Briggs attentions landed on Mark's carefully constructed pile. He kicked it over and put a boot print on the chest of one Mark's shirts.

"What's in here?" He grabbed the toiletry bag. "Drugs? Booze? Maybe a tube of K-Y jelly and a big cucumber?"

One by one, Mark's toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, and shaving cream fell to the ground.

"You must have hidden it pretty well, candidate," Briggs growled. "But I'll find it. Oh, yeah, I'll find it. And when I do, I'll run your ass out of my Marine Corps before you can ever call your congressman."

Briggs moved on to his next victim. Mark hesitantly began to piece his life back together, wonder why he was at OCS. Next to him, Andrew caught his eye with a smile and mouthed, "Semper fi."

_**So Mark got his first taste of what OCS will really be like for the rest of his time there. So far not everything has gone as most would have hoped. How will Mark adapt and overcome this new environment. Only time will tell. So until then read, review, and enjoy what I have for you so far.**_

_**Semper FI**_

_**CORPSMAN**_


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